


The Bond AUs that weren't

by winterysomnium



Category: Bond AU, DC AU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, be my bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First drable: “If there is a theme to <i>me</i>, there must be a theme to you too, don’t you think, Tim? You and ropes and Bruce’s old messes? I’ve heard all about Ra’s al Ghul.”</p><p> </p><p>Second drabble: “May your nerdiness save the world.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bond AUs that weren't

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first AU is: **reverse 00Q as in Tim is Bond and Jason is Q.**  
>  And second (and genius, omg, varevare.tumblr.com you are amazing): **SilvaBond where Jason is Silva, Tim is Bond and Bruce is M.** aka the **Be my Bond verse** (guys it actually fits the DC theme between these three characters, well it actually fits Jason a lot in some ways and I don't know, it was sort of a lot of fun to write?)

**I. - SilvaBond;PG-13; Tim as Bond, Jason as Silva, Bruce as M; 589 words**

If there are teeth in his mouth, there are going to be words too.

If there’s oxygen inside of him, thoughts will be stored there too. Endless supplies and his jar of stupid might spill over into the jar of smart, the jar of _be quiet, Drake you’re a Wayne now_ and Bruce sometimes puts his plate on top of his after they finish dinner but mostly it’s Bruce putting Tim’s plate onto his own and the bottom of it gets dirty and greasy with oil and that’s what this feels like: getting dragged through the residues of Bruce’s yesterday’s first class dinner.

(Let’s forget about it being a person, let’s forget about it being a nearly dead boy, a nearly expected pressure put against Tim’s head; thumbs instead of barrels of guns. 

Let’s forget about Tim’s lost, thin jacket and the patterns of dust on his shoes; let’s forget that now: he’s a nearly dead boy too.)

“There seems to be a theme going on with you, furniture, and tying agents up. Is this the new villain _it_ thing? Returning back to the good old classics?” Tim asks and his voice might be cracked with coughs, might be sore but the taunt in it stays, curls above his neck.

Jason’s thumbs drop to his chin, a knuckle sliding down the flat, heartbeat line of his throat, hooking into the circle of his tie, the Windsor bumping against the plastic buttons of his shirt, the bony underside of his skin.

“If there is a theme to _me_ , there must be a theme to you too, don’t you think, Tim? You and ropes and Bruce’s old messes? I’ve heard all about Ra’s al Ghul,” Jason answers, murmurs into the pocket of their lips; a mouth and a place for distance to spread and a mouth. (Tim’s feels, looks, stays dry.)

“That might be because –” Tim starts, stays at the cliff of the sentence until Jason’s eyes lift, painted through shadows and closeness, coloured against the gray of the air. “– because I’m good at taking care of them,” he finishes and – 

Moments of being confident back fire; fill you up with smoke and poison that place, that secure cage within yourself you thought you had; it shows in the blanks of Tim’s smirk. 

(And the trouble with ex agents is – they know.)

“Are you? Then why don’t you take care of this darling for me.” Jason’s hands place a countdown into Tim’s lap, secure it to the middle of his hips and his fingers linger, tap the moving screen, the numbers running backwards.

“Good luck, Tim,” he says and his shoulders shift as he cups the corners of Tim’s neck, kisses half of his lips.

(There’s nothing but Tim’s eyelids, the weight of the explosives, Jason’s aftershave. For that press of a second, there’s nothing more in the world for Tim than that.) 

Jason doesn’t get to leave when Tim asks, his mind decomposing the threat already, his wrists nearly loose.

“What are you trying to prove, Jason?” he says, calls after the back and spine and fall of cotton that never quite turns his way, that never quite sees him for the person he is, was trying to be, failed to become.

(If there’s anything left in Tim’s chest; Jason takes it all.

Because Jason, Jason is never the nearly, the might be, the quite isn’t son.)

“What I’m trying to prove _is_ – that once you slip up, you’re going to be as dead to Bruce as I.”

 

**II.- 00Q;PG-13; Tim as Bond, Jason as Q; 589+ words**

“Are your Martinis virgin too?” Jason asks, his glossy beer slipping next to Tim’s triangle of a drink before Jason himself hops up onto the stool, his glasses catching shards of lights and locking them in, settled on the crown of Jason’s head, as smart, as divided, as dizzying as Jason’s eyes, as Tim’s alcohol washed lips, as this nothing that grows between them. 

(That grows through their skin.)

Tim prefers lethal to crippling, prefers trees to flowers, prefers sarcasm to hollow, meaningless gestures.

Prefers good jokes to jokes that are bad.

“New Q’s file updated: never ask him to help you pick a good, villain wooing joke, his taste is _off the charts_ terrible,” Tim drones and there’s a surprised laugh that bounces across the mute sounds of the lounge, through the bones in Tim’s chest. 

“Wow and _I’m_ supposed to be the nerd here.” Jason dips his glass and it chinks against Tim’s, Jason’s “Cheers” quick and swallowed by a second, small snicker, a second, small curl of lips. “May your nerdiness save the world,” he winks and drinks on those words; the rough, wet tip of his tongue darting to one cracked corner of his lips before he wipes his fingers against his pants, the drops of the glass’ icy dew drying on the top of his thighs.

Tim is tense, keeps being quiet and – there’s a secret to his silences.

(They aren’t him being condescending or insulted or ignorant; they aren’t him deciding how much he wants to fuck you up in the next ten minutes; they aren’t him being an arrogant, spoiled prick either.

Actually –)

it’s him being embarrassed. Shy about it, about Q, about preferring boys to girls and:  
there’s another thing about his silences.

(They don’t last.)

Tim breathes in, opens his lungs, thinks about the syllables he’s about to shape but – Jason is faster, more skilled at chatter and the rhythm, the pattern of _these_ kinds of conversations so he cuts him off, cuts the shapes out of Tim’s teeth. 

“Okay, I‘m _sorry_ for the lame-ass joke but you can’t really blame me, 007, now can you? I mean – you’re known as the _Bond that doesn’t bond_. You _have_ to admit that that’s too damn good to pass up,” Jason says, smiles like it’s natural to him, like that’s his default way of getting to know people, of getting through life. With jokes and apologies and handsome mouths.

(Tim is almost buying it.)

Almost.

“Well _excuse me_ if I don’t have unprotected sex on uncomfortable surfaces of _all kinds_ on every damn mission,” Tim huffs, slides down from his stool, leaving his drink untouched on the bar. “And a) my name isn’t Bond; b) technically, that _could_ be a virgin Martini if it weren’t _water_ , because c) I don’t like the taste and alcohol is just a hindrance on the job most of the time and d): lunch break ends in three minutes which means we’re late for our meeting with M if you don’t hurry up and finish that beer in ten seconds so drink fast, please,” Tim says and Jason stills, blinks, and laughs again, turning around on his stool before jumping down, putting his glasses back high up his nose. “You sure do know your alphabet,” he snickers and if Tim were less of a trained, controlled guy, he might’ve done something soothingly self destructive to himself.

Instead, he glares.

“You’re actually _impossible_ , aren’t you?”

Jason just smirks. “On the contrary, 007. With me, _everything_ is possible.”


End file.
